


We're Different and the Same

by mockanddee



Category: Glee
Genre: Anal Sex, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 13:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2622725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mockanddee/pseuds/mockanddee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After ten years of friendship, Kurt and Elliott reconnect in New York--Elliott getting his home back, and Kurt feeling like he is getting his friend back. Maybe they were always heading to this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Different and the Same

**Author's Note:**

> Written For Kelliott Appreciation Weekend. Thank you to everyone who supported and encouraged this fic. <3

It’s at the Hester Street Fair on a cool September Saturday when they run into each other again. The sky is gray-cloudy, and Kurt is wearing his favorite navy coat with velvet at the collar and lined with a light blue paisley-patterned silk that only he knows about.

He’s there shopping with Flora, a friend of his from a show they did together several years before, and her daughter. Flora bought Daisy snacks to eat and keep her distracted while they look through tables of vintage costume jewelry, booths of found and crafted home decor items: peeling picture frames, sleek cocktail shakers from the fifties, rustic wooden vases. Kurt is ostensibly looking for something for his apartment but feels too distracted to commit to anything he sees—he can’t imagine any of this actually in his space, in his home. He had moved from Brooklyn five years earlier and bought in the West Village, a tiny place that he paid too much for and didn’t love enough.

It was here, holding a green-glass bottle in one hand and a decoupaged plate in the other, that Kurt sees Elliott. He looks a little older, his hair dyed a bit darker than Kurt recalls, but that might just be one version of him that has remained incredibly persistent in Kurt’s brain despite the number of looks, hair colors and styles, that Elliott has worn over the years, hanging on tightly when Kurt searches for and finds him there in his memories.

Elliott sees Kurt too, looks at him, and smiles. And Kurt smiles back.

Kurt turns, putting down the items in his hands just as Elliott reaches him, and then quickly back around and right into the hug—Elliott’s arms coming around him, slipping down his back and pulling him close like they always did. The shoulder of his brown leather jacket is cold under Kurt’s hot cheek.

“Kurt, it’s so good to see you,” Elliott says, and it’s warmth and a little guilt at the same time. Kurt isn’t sure if he even remembers the last conversation they had, the last friendly email he sent: two years, three? They had kept their friendship even after their artistic paths had diverged, after the band had fallen apart, and then it was drinks and coffees and going out to shows when they could. Then life had diverged their paths even more.

They let go, but Elliott’s hand remains on Kurt’s arm. “You look great.”

Kurt smiles. “Thank you. So do you.”

And he does. Attractive-real in that moment, tall and present, with well-fitting jacket and tight dark jeans. He’s so different from the friendly-appeal that Kurt always remembers of him. It has a fuzziness to it, like he’s uncertain if he found Elliott gorgeous back then. He wonders how much of that is true either.

Behind Elliott, Flora’s eyes are wide and she’s mouthing, _who is this?_ and pointing at him, and then attempting to gesture something that Kurt doesn’t get. He tries not to laugh, and he shakes his head at her.

“It’s been awhile. Are you living in New York again?” Kurt asks Elliott, and he nods.

“Yeah, over in Greenpoint right now. I’m so glad to be back. There isn’t another city like this one,” he says.

Flora clears her throat, loud and obvious. Daisy is eating a huge gingerbread cookie with orange icing and looking between Kurt, her mom, and Elliott, vaguely judgmental with a smeary face.

Or, well, Kurt might be projecting a bit.

Kurt makes the introductions, and he’s clumsy with it.  _Elliott, this is my friend Flora. We did a show together. No, not that one._   _I don’t know if you know about this one._ and  _Flora, this is Elliott. We were in a band together once. He was my first real friend in New York._ It doesn’t feel quite right or quite enough. He isn’t sure what else to say.

“Do you want to get drinks soon, catch up?” Kurt finally asks.

Elliott says of course and they exchange numbers, although Kurt’s is still the same, and make tentative plans for the next weekend.

Kurt buys the green-glass bottle anyway before they leave. He has no idea where the hell he’s going to put it in his apartment.

***

They go out for drinks—Kurt makes the trip to Brooklyn and they meet in Williamsburg, at a dark bar with good drink specials, and cramped little tables with cracking leather seating. Elliott has a round for them waiting when Kurt gets there.

He knocks most of the drink back in one go. “So tell me about San Francisco.”

Elliott raises his eyebrows at him, which Kurt ignores. Even though it had been awhile since they talked, they still have enough mutual friends that Kurt heard through the gossip mill that Elliott had been in California for at least the last year. So Elliott tells him about the band he sang with out there, the townhouse he shared with three other people, the art scene he loved.

"Oh my god, there were some gorgeous guys too.  _Crazy_ _._  But gorgeous,” Elliott says, widening his eyes.

Kurt snorts. “I’ve known you too long. That describes half the guys you date, even if you like to pretend otherwise. Someone special?”

Elliott makes a noise, shrugging. “Maybe. Or, not so much.”

"Oh. I’m sorry then," Kurt says, taken aback. Elliott hasn’t been hurt very often in his relationships. He doesn’t hook-up, not really, but most of his boyfriends are friends he sees and fucks casually for six months or so and then manages to go back to the friendship with just enough drama that it seems to become more of a story to tell at parties than anything else.  _Oh god Milo, you want to tell them about that time you and I actually dated?_   It’s so different from Kurt’s own romantic history that he can barely understand it. He thinks he’d be terrible at it if he ever tried it himself. But he can easily hear what Elliott isn’t saying here. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Elliott smiles and shakes his head, then narrows his eyes at Kurt. “So what about you? How has life been here?”

"Mostly the same, I guess," Kurt says, poking at the ice in his drink with his straw.

"Yeah, no. Stop. I know what you’re doing," Elliott says.

Kurt rolls his eyes. “Why do you say that?”

"Well, first, you’ve asked me five hundred questions but have hardly mentioned yourself, which," Elliott gives him a pointed look. "Second, you’re on your second drink and mostly look like you just want to go home and go to bed.  _Alone_.”

Kurt glares. “Maybe I’m just getting old.”

Elliott laughs.

Kurt relents, tension falling from his shoulders a bit. “No, you know how this city can be. I’m doing some freelance writing right now, mostly fashion, and still auditioning sometimes. Besides that, I have a few friends and go out when I feel like it. That’s really pretty much it.”

"Yeah, I do know how. But look, I tried San Francisco, and those months in Chicago before that. This place is my home," Elliott says. "I love it. And so do you. So what’s really the problem?"

Kurt meets his eyes. They are warm and soft, and Elliott reaches over and covers Kurt’s hand with his own.

"I don’t know," Kurt answers, honestly.

"I know you probably aren’t looking for advice tonight," Elliott starts. And that’s when Kurt shoots  _him_ a pointed look because if there was one constant in their relationship over the years, is that Elliott could always tell when Kurt needed advice, even if  _looking_  for it was never exactly what he had been doing. “But maybe you should figure that out?”

Kurt nods. Exhales. “Yeah, you’re right.”

***

The next weekend, they go out to a flea market in Park Slope they used to frequent when they were younger, Elliott picking out records for Kurt to buy, bands from the seventies and eighties that he has never heard before.

It could have easily been ten years before, Elliott still teasing him about his taste in music and imploring Kurt to trust him.  _You need to have this._

The weekend after that, they visit some of Elliott’s friends in Astoria that he hasn’t seen since he got back. They eat Greek food, huge platters of gyro meat and hummus and potatoes, and drink red wine until Kurt feels flushed and he knows he’s far too drunk for how early it is. He leans his head on Elliott’s shoulder on the train, and Elliott runs his thumb along the bare skin of Kurt’s forearm idly, like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.

"I missed you," Kurt mumbles, sloppy-soft, into the fabric of Elliott’s coat and he feels the press of Elliott’s answering smile on his hairline.

Then, it’s trips to the park and out for Indian food. Elliott takes him to a bar in the Lower East Side where they listen to an indie-pop band that vaguely reminds Kurt of Pamela Lansbury, and drink fruity cocktails and Elliott gets him out on the dance floor for a few songs, hands so low on Kurt’s hips, warm against his back.

Kurt pretends not to notice.

They go see a show off-Broadway and meet up with a few old theater friends: a loud, wild group that they ran with for a bit, a couple years after college when auditioning was most of Kurt’s life. They catch up on the gossip over tapas and sangria, and Elliott catches up with two of his exes. He sees Elliott put a number into his phone before they leave.

The friendship is just as easy as it had always been, with a steadiness and an honesty that Kurt remembers so well. They make their way around the city, Elliott getting his home back, and Kurt feeling like he is getting his friend back. They are developing their own language again, the looks that Kurt can read that mean Elliott isn’t going to let that slide, the gentle teasing that makes Kurt laugh and forces him to confide, the comfort of Elliott’s bodily presence, a physical affection between them that Kurt hasn’t shared with many people in his life.

Rachel is thrilled, of course, and asks about Elliott every time she and Kurt talk, always sending her love to him from Los Angeles and telling Kurt how happy she is for him. Kurt thinks she’s being a bit dramatic about the whole thing but it wraps around him snug and he’s thankful for it.

It becomes a rhythm to Kurt’s life, and a grounding point, that he hadn’t even realized he had been missing.

***

Kurt lands a big article with New York magazine and a callback for a play the same week and decides to invite Elliott over for dinner to celebrate. It’s been years since Elliott had been to his place. He had been a little doubtful when Kurt purchased it, not getting why Kurt wanted to move when he loved Brooklyn so much, and he could admit that he wanted to show Elliott how he had finally settled in.

He brings home groceries and wine: ingredients to make a pasta with a rustic tomato sauce and a salad, fresh bread from a nearby bakery, and a variety of cheeses. He cleans up a bit, rearranging the pillows, and exchanging the cream-colored throw he usually keeps on the little sofa for a deep-dyed royal blue one. The green-glass bottle he bought that first day of seeing Elliott again gets moved from his dresser in his bedroom to the living room where it can be seen.

He showers and changes into a pair of black skinny jeans and a sweater, and messes with his hair for far too long for a dinner with an old friend. He knows it, he tries to tell himself not to do it, but he doesn’t think too hard about what that means.

By the time Elliott knocks on the door, Kurt has the sauce on the stove and is opening the bottle of wine.

Elliott hugs him when he answers the door. “It already smells amazing in here. Do you have alcohol? I brought cake.”

Kurt laughs and takes the box from Elliott’s hands. “Wine. I assume you want a glass?”

"Please," Elliott replies, unwrapping his scarf from around his neck and taking off his coat. He’s not even attempting to hide his curiosity as he looks around. "This place is so small compared to your loft."

"You know that was a steal. Nineteen years old and living in that kind of space may have set unreasonable expectations." Kurt shrugs, handing Elliott his wine glass. "This one, well, I pay for the neighborhood."

Elliott sips his wine and shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything more. 

There’s a cutout between the galley kitchen and the living-slash-dining room, and while Kurt checks on the sauce and puts the water on to boil, he watches Elliott as he studies the books on Kurt’s shelves, the couple of framed pictures he has out. He sees Elliott touch, soft and quick, the delicate feathery leaves of the potted fern by the window. He looks Elliott’s hand around his wineglass.

His pulse skitters.

Once the pasta is done cooking and Kurt has pulled together the rest of the meal, a salad he made earlier and a platter for the bread and cheeses, they carry everything out to the coffee table, instead of the little dining table.

They sit at either end of the sofa and eat their pasta, ripping off pieces of bread to mop up the sauce and chatting about their days. Kurt tells Elliott about the article he’s writing and Elliott tells Kurt about his own audition he went on that week for a new band that he’s excited about.

They each have another glass of wine and stretch out a bit when the food is gone, Elliott kicking off his shoes and leaning back against the armrest.

"So what’s going on with you and James? You seemed cozy a couple weeks ago," Kurt teases.

Elliott grins, poking Kurt with his toes. “We had dinner.”

Kurt makes a go-on gesture with his hand.

"And he wanted me to go home with him," Elliott says.

"But you didn’t?"

Elliott laughs, and it’s light and easy. “Oh  _please_ , Kurt. You know he’s nothing but trouble soaked in gin-and-tonics—fun when I was twenty-five but now? Not interested in doing that with him again.”

Kurt isn’t sure what he’s feeling right now. It feels tangled. Because he realizes there is a part of him that’s glad that Elliott said no, but even more so that Elliott seems unbothered over it. And a little like the threads of discontent in him might be some sort of proto-jealousy and god, he’s not sure how to even begin to approach that. He’s never had that feeling before about Elliott having dinner with another man.

Kurt sips his wine and looks at Elliott, at the shape of his face and the sweep of his hair, and he feels it in his chest.

"What happened with the guy out in California?"

Elliott sighs, downing the rest of his glass and reaching for the bottle again. He shoots Kurt a disbelieving look. “That wasn’t really anything. It’s done.”

"Okay," Kurt says. "I’m just curious."

Elliott adjusts on the couch, sliding closer to Kurt and sitting up, pulling Kurt’s legs over his lap. “Shit, I think you are going to be very unimpressed with this story.”

"We’ll see. C’mon." Kurt sets it out as a challenge in his voice and Elliott knows exactly what he’s doing, narrowing his eyes at him.

"So, okay. I had been out there a few months when I met Luca at a gallery opening. I was attracted right away. In a way I hadn’t been since—well, for years. He was an artist and really funny and—I liked him."

"So what happened? It ended badly?"

Elliott leans his head back against the couch and then turns to look at Kurt, blue eyes thoughtful and clear. Kurt feels inexplicably nervous.

"I guess you could say that."

"Oh, I—," Kurt starts, stops, and waits. Elliott wraps a hand around Kurt’s lower leg where it rests across Elliott’s thighs.

"We went on a few dates, had a few nice weekends," Elliott says and despite his light tone of voice, he has a tension to him like he’s pressing on a bruise just by telling Kurt this. "I hadn’t really been looking for it, but I did start to wonder, if maybe it could be more."

"After only a few dates?"

Elliott hums. “I think it was more, like, I hoped I could feel things there.”

"So how did Luca feel?" Kurt asks.

"He asked me to move in with him."

Kurt’s eyebrows go up. “Oh.”

"Yeah, so I’m there and he has dinner set out and he’s looking at me and I—say no. It just comes out. Whatever I was looking for there, I guess I hadn’t found it. Six weeks after that, I find out he’s now  _engaged_ to his twenty-two year old boyfriend that he never stopped fucking. So who even knows what he was doing with me.”

Kurt winces. “Jesus, Elliott.”

"It wasn’t quite like that. I think it was more disappointment than anything else, and it knocked me a little off-balance." Elliott smirks. "But it did make me question what the fuck I was thinking if I was even considering settling down outside of New York.”

"So maybe I should thank Luca and the boyfriend? Because now I have you back here?" Kurt says with laughter in his throat

Elliott’s eyes are still so clear, and he doesn’t look away. “I definitely think it helped give me the push to come home.”

And something about it—Kurt’s breath catches. He swallows. “I’m glad you did.”

Elliott holds an arm up and Kurt crawls closer to him, lets him put an arm around his shoulders and pull him in. The warmth of Elliott’s body, the strength of his arms, the familiar smell of him, pulls at Kurt.

"What you asked me that first night, what my problem is—and really, I’ve been fine." Kurt says, hesitant, weighing each word as they find their way out. Still, he stumbles. "I go through my days okay, but—a little detatched. I don’t think I feel lost, but—"

Kurt’s heart slams in his chest—thump thump—blood and veins and he feels the shifting winds around them, between them, sitting there on that couch in Kurt’s little apartment. Kurt’s breaths feel strange in his chest, and he can’t take his eyes away from Elliott’s mouth, from the curve of his lip, from the sweep of his brow, from his lashes on his cheek when he blinks.

It keeps pulling.

Kurt feels empty and nervy and like he doesn’t know what to do—the air vibrates between them, he can feel Elliott’s exhales on his face, the sharp-fruity-tannins of the wine on his breath. Kurt’s disoriented and drawn tight and trying to crawl his way back towards control of this.

Elliott kisses him.

Shock and heat. That’s all Kurt can think, the kiss is soft and wet, and something inside of him is unsnapping, pulling apart. He makes a noise and kisses Elliott back.

They grasp at each other, Elliott’s hands coming around Kurt’s body in a shadowy-mimic of their hugs but they feel so heavy-hot now, the pressure of him, bringing Kurt in. He grabs Elliott’s shoulder, and Elliott’s tongue brushes Kurt’s lip, again, until he opens and then the stroke of his tongue on Kurt’s, in Kurt’s mouth, and Kurt feels in his chest, every touch, and in his cock. He knows he is making more noises.

They’ve been friends for ten years and Kurt’s not sure anything in his entire life has ever felt so fucking good as Elliott’s tongue in his mouth.

“Wait, wait,” Kurt sighs out, and Elliott draws back a little, breaking the contact of their mouth but staying close.

“Kurt,” Elliott whispers, and there’s fear in his voice. And that fear echoes in Kurt, a quake of what this means and why they are doing it, and that neither of them have any answers. God, Kurt just  _wants_  and he wants to have Elliott close to him.

“We’re okay,” Kurt whispers back, making eye contact with Elliott, rubbing his shoulder, the side of his neck. “Yeah?”

Elliott kisses Kurt’s cheek, his jaw, next to his mouth. “Yeah, we’re really good.”

And then they are kissing again, deep and open-mouthed now, holding each other. Kurt is nearly in Elliott’s lap and one of Elliott’s hands is low on Kurt’s back and the other on his thigh, rubbing down towards his knee, cupping it gently, and then back up, closer and closer to where Kurt’s cock is pressing into his zipper, bulge obvious in his tight pants.

Kurt isn’t sure Elliott is actually going to touch him. He  _wants_.

He grabs Elliott’s hand, stopping the movement, and clings to it with his own for a moment, lacing their fingers together. Then he places that hand high on his own thigh and nods just a little. Elliott’s big hand slides the last inch and covers Kurt’s hard cock through his pants, squeezing, and they both  _moan_.

It’s overwhelming and crashingly exciting, Kurt’s nerves sparking and synapses firing.

Elliott touches him and Kurt rocks into it, gasping, and Elliott pulls away from the kiss, dragging his mouth down Kurt’s neck, while his hand never stops the slow stroke of Kurt’s cock through his pants.

"Fuck," Kurt says, and it sounds high and breathless, nearly a squeak.

Elliott laughs into his skin, face pressed to Kurt’s collarbone. “Fuck, honey, you’re so hot.”

Elliott lifts his head, still smiling, and the joy in Kurt is so swift that it feels like a physical cramp in his chest and tears press in the corners of his eyes. Kurt’s skin is wet from Elliott’s kisses and there is a hand on his cock and god, were they always heading to this? Elliott tugs on the bottom of Kurt’s shirt, looking right at him. “I want to make you come.”

Kurt laughs then himself, covering his mouth with one hand, and nods.

Elliott has Kurt’s pants unbuttoned and his zipper down before Kurt even can grab for him again, bringing their lips back together. Then, Elliott’s hand is gripping Kurt’s bare cock and he whimpers and his hips buck up.

"Oh my god," Kurt manages to get out when Elliott pulls away to look down, watching his own hand around Kurt. Kurt’s head drops back against the cushion behind him and Elliott tightens his other arm around his shoulders, holding him in place.

Elliott’s grip is tight and slick with a little of his own saliva and Kurt’s precome, and he kisses along Kurt’s cheek and temple and neck, as his hips jerk off the couch again and again in the rhythm that Elliott is setting. It’s so intense and shocking in the contrast of being held so close and kissed so gently and so relentlessly touched.

And he can’t help, the soft gasping noises he’s making or the way his hands grasp for something to hold on to, Elliott’s leg, the edge of the sofa. It builds so fast, so hot and sharp, it’s almost a shock when he starts to come, wet and messy into Elliott’s hand.

"Shit," he cries out. "Oh god, oh—god."

When he’s done coming, he turns his head and finds Elliott’s lips, who is panting so hard he can barely kiss back. “ _Kurt_ _._ ”

Kurt scrambles so he is straddling Elliott’s thighs, his softening cock still hanging out of his briefs and he tugs at the fly of Elliott’s pants, making a victorious noise when he gets Elliott’s erection into his hand. Elliott’s clean hand grapples at Kurt’s waist before reaching around and grabbing his ass, holding on.

Elliott’s dick is gorgeous, big and flushed dark blood-red, and so so hard. Kurt squirms a little on Elliott’s lap—the hand tightens on his ass in response and Kurt shivers—and licks his own palm and starts stroking him, watching Elliott’s face as he flushes and gasps, and Kurt changes his grip as he gauges his reactions.

"Kurt, I—" Elliott moans, and he looks so shaken but he’s smiling. Kurt leans down and tries to puts their mouths together but his lips land on Elliott’s teeth instead and Kurt giggles, and just licks at Elliott’s mouth, jerking him harder, faster. Elliott moans one more time, hips rocking, and then comes too. Kurt tries to catch it the best he can.

Kurt falls off Elliott back onto the sofa, and they are both breathing hard, hands dirty, and they can’t stop looking at each other.

"Um, we should probably clean up. You can use to bathroom first," Kurt offers, tugging his underwear up to cover himself.

"Yeah, sure," Elliott says and disappears for a few minutes and Kurt just tries to breathe—his heart still beating too fast and sliver of anxiety in his gut. He goes into his little kitchen, turns the handle to start the water, and has to fight the urge to laugh at himself for the vague distressing feeling he has about the fact he’s washing his come-sticky hands off at his kitchen sink.

He zips and buttons up his pants.

By the time Elliott reappears, he feels like he’s reclaimed a bit of calm. “Elliott, I—I know we should talk about this, but right now, can we just have some cake together and finish this wine?”

Elliott watches him, still, and they breathe. “Yeah, of course.”

***

It has been three days since he has spoken to Elliott. That night, Elliott has been kind to him, Kurt knows: they had each eaten a fat piece of cake and drank the rest of their big glasses of wine. Elliott had helped him clean up, their hips bumping together in the little kitchen, wet fingers brushing together as they passed each other dishes.

Then he had kissed Kurt on the cheek and gone home.

And Kurt has a feeling the silence since has been Elliott’s way of giving him a little breathing room, for which part of Kurt is so grateful, knowing how well Elliott knows him—and that part of him is also aware of the ache right in the center of him, a feeling that has him rolling over in bed every night and waking up with his arm extended, a yearning that tastes like Elliott’s mouth.

He’s scared.

Because he doesn’t know how to do this the way he’s seen Elliott do this so many times over the years. Because there was a sleek shift in him the moment he was being kissed by one of the realest friends he’s ever had. 

He goes early on Tuesday morning to the High Line, wrapped up in a scarf and coat with the cool-clear sunlight weak on his skin, to walk and to think. There aren’t many other people there, the greenery mottled dying-brown and dull last-gasp green, and the breeze strong. The city noises are all around him, but up here for Kurt, he finds a kind of lonely cold quietness he needs.

He and Elliott got into a fight once when they were younger—Kurt was in his senior year at NYADA. Elliott had graduated and was working at a music store in the East Village and lived in a sixth-floor walk-up. The argument started over a misunderstanding over whether or not they still wanted to rehearse together, if that meant that their band was even _a thing_ anymore, if the “band hiatus to pursue other projects” meant it was done. And Kurt had become snappish and defensive, and Elliott annoyed and judgemental, and despite the fact Elliott always seemed to be able to diffuse tensions between them, it just didn’t work that time, saying the wrong thing and talking over each other.

It was almost five days before they fixed it.

Kurt doesn’t know why he keeps thinking of that, they aren’t in a fight now, but they both knew then that something wasn’t going to be quite the same between them—that without the band or even the shadow of one, the vague shadow of one day we’ll play some more gigs, their whole relationship had a brand-new shape to it and Kurt was afraid to reach out and touch those edges.

He wants to see him.

***

He texts Elliott and asks him out for dinner, and they agree on a Thai place they both like, one they haven’t been to recently but have fond memories of from dozens of dinners out through their twenties. It feels right, somehow, to Kurt, that they picked it.

He dresses carefully—tailored pants, gray-and-blue patterned button-up shirt, a black vest that laces up the back. Around his neck, he ties a lighter gray neckerchief. He smooths, tucks, straightens, laces until he feels ready—the motions of it soothing.

The night is cold but the interior of the restaurant is warm and dim and fragrant when he gets there. He is seated at a small table in the back.

When Elliott gets there, Kurt stands up and Elliott opens his arms to him right away, hand going to Kurt’s lower back, right above the curve of his ass. Kurt takes a breath as they hug, taking comfort in the easiness still there.

They order food and glasses of wine, talking about their weeks, skirting around the topic—for now—about what happened between them the weekend before.

It’s over their plates of their nearly-finished pad thai and chicken larb that Kurt finally brings it up.

“I guess you know I wanted to talk,” he says, straightening his knife on the table.

“I hoped you did. I mean, I was going to bring it up either way, so,” Elliott says, quirking an eyebrow.

“Well, what were you waiting for?” Kurt laughs.

“I don’t know,” Elliott replies, his face growing more solemn. “You, I think.”

Kurt feels like the words have been knocked from his grip for a moment, and he’s on the floor trying to grab them. “I, I don’t—”

Elliott holds up a hand. “You kinda freaked out on me.”

“Are we talking about now or the other day?”

“Well, I  _was_  talking about the other day,  _but_ —”

Kurt rolls his eyes. “You’re right, okay. I did. Sorta.”

Elliott takes a sip of wine, his gaze heavy. “Why?”

“I guess, well, we’ve been friends for a long time. God, I feel like such a cliché right now saying, I didn’t know what that kind of thing  _means_.”

Elliott smiles, and looks down, laughing a little and it sounds more self-deprecating than Kurt is used to from him—Elliott is usually so much blistering, steady confidence; it always attracted Kurt to him, connected them. “I didn’t know either,” he admits. “But, Kurt, I liked it.”

“I can’t be a guy you date for six months and move on from, I can’t do it like that. I wouldn’t even know—,” Kurt says in a rush, because he needs some ground here.

“ _Kurt_ ,” Elliott stops him, with hand on his wrist. “I know.”

“Okay, so where does that leave us?”

Elliott sighs. “When I decided to come back to New York, I had to stop myself from dialing your number. It was like my first instinct. For all the things that New York has been to me, in some ways it was home before I even lived here—there’s you, in my head, every time.”

The candle on their table is throwing flickering light onto Elliott’s face, the gorgeous lines of his face capturing Kurt’s gaze. He rubs his thumb against the table, measuring each exhale, his heart speeding up as he just looks at him, waiting.

“So we started hanging out again and things felt, well the same as they always had—I was glad but I don’t think they were the same for me, not really.”

“They weren’t the same for me either,” Kurt whispers.

“Kurt, come on, I don’t know what to think because I have no idea what you’re feeling here—you say you don’t want to be a guy I date for a few months, but well, I don’t want to be someone who’s there just for you to make yourself feel things.”

Kurt jerks back, flinching. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not. But you said it yourself—you’ve felt a little lost. I know that means for you,” Elliott says, and it isn’t even an accusation—it’s gentle, so very gentle. And full of affection.

“I don’t know what to say. I don’t want you to think that’s what I was doing, what I _am_  doing.”

Elliott smiles at him, and reaches for his hand. “You know, we don’t have to figure this out right now. Do you want to get out of here? There’s some place I want to take you.”

Kurt nods. “Yes. That sounds great.”

They pay the check and head out into the street. They walk a bit and then take the train a couple stops. Kurt has a feeling he knows where they are going.

“Oh no, really?” he says, as the bar comes into view.

It’s a wicked grin he gets in return from Elliott and Kurt knows he’s not getting out of tonight without singing.

***

It’s a bar they actually played at once back in their One Three Hill days with Dani, Kurt had no idea it was still even  _here_ , but they have a kind of free-form open mic on weekend nights—he does remember that. It became one place in rotation of places they bounced around to in those days, looking for places to sing, to be with friends, to have a drink.

It’s packed with people inside, bodies pressing in close and tight, as the band plays loud and there is a clink of glasses and laughter and bright voices. The whole place just vibrates and Kurt feels it in his bones, and in his teeth.

Elliott goes to talk to one of the guys standing at a booth over to the side of the low platform stage, sees him nudge the man and point over to Kurt, and then back at the stage. Elliott gestures Kurt over.

"Ready for this?"

Kurt exhales. “I’m ready.”

Elliott pulls him up. Kurt wipes his palm on his pants and takes a microphone. Elliott has the other one, and he signals for the band to start.

As soon as the music begins, first notes ringing out, Kurt laughs—he knows the song, it’s an old one they used to sing together all the time. The band here makes it a bit more rocking than the synthpop original but they slip into it easy.

The beat is strong and they toss verses back and forth, coming near, and then getting chased away. Hearts pounding, Elliott’s hand runs along the curve of Kurt’s hip, before Kurt spins out of his grip.

Kurt runs his hand down his own thigh and Elliott watches, watches the drag of it.

The music builds—an arcing tension that pulls, pulls between them. Kurt has sweat gathering on the back of his neck—the bright of the lights leave no place to go. He can’t look away, can’t step away, not any more. It’s like a valve has been released in him and he grabs—grabs for Elliott’s hand just as the song comes to a close, chests heaving.

Kurt can’t catch his breath and Elliott pulls him off the little stage, into the crowd, and turns him around and kisses him, desperate and quick, right there on the floor. Kurt stretches up into it.

"Come home with me?" Kurt asks.

Elliott says yes.

***

Kurt’s apartment is quiet and dark when they get there. And he expects to feel something change but the beat of his blood is as strong as ever, Elliott’s hand on his lower back, a solid presence here.

They kiss there in Kurt’s little living room in the dark, learning each other’s mouths again, the slick slide of tongues touching. Kurt puts his arms around Elliott’s shoulders, leans into him, while Elliott strokes his back, his arms, cups the back of his head. It’s a gentle pressure that causes Kurt to sag into him just a little more, kisses going a little wild.

Kurt breaks the kiss, and meets Elliott’s eyes. “Please?”

"Anything," Elliott whispers back, kissing the corner of Kurt’s mouth, a kiss full of affection and the curve of a smile.

He takes Elliott’s hand and leads him to his bedroom, turning on the little lamp next to his bed, and giving him a little push onto it, so Elliott falls sitting on the bed. Kurt steps in between his spread knees. “Give me a minute?”

He retreats to the bathroom and cleans himself up quickly, pulse fluttering and sweat still sticking to his skin from their performance. When he gets back into the bedroom, Elliott is still sitting on the bed, but his shirt has been unbuttoned, a golden stretch of skin on display. He holds his hand out to Kurt.

"Hey," Kurt whispers and goes to him, lets himself be pulled into Elliott’s lap, his thighs spread over him. "We’re okay?"

Elliott runs his hands up Kurt’s sides, pulls at the top button of Kurt’s shirt, and echos the last time they were together, eyes on each other. “Yeah, we’re really good.”

They kiss then and Elliott’s fingers deftly pull the knot on the rectangle of fabric still around Kurt’s neck, releasing it and dropping it to the bed. Then the buttons of Kurt’s vest and then shirt, one by one, undone and then unpeeled, while their mouths meet over and over again.

Kurt works his hands into the opening created by Elliott’s hanging shirt, bare palms on hot skin, and he can’t stop himself from rolling his pelvis, his cock filling, and he craves the pressure and the friction. He moans into Elliott’s mouth and pushes his shirt from his shoulders, needing more, so the skin of their chests is pressed together.

Shirts now on the floor, Elliott’s mouth trails down Kurt’s neck, hitting the spot that makes him buck and his eyes roll back, squirming and spreading his knees even more. The wet on Elliott’s tongue works that spot until Kurt threads his fingers into Elliott’s hair, pulling a little.

"Will you fuck me?" Kurt gasps.

Elliott makes a noise, needful and low. “Yeah, god, Kurt—I want you so fucking bad.”

Kurt whimpers, and wiggles off Elliott’s lap and onto the bed, taking off his own pants as he goes, nearly falling from his knees onto his side in the process. Elliott laughs at him and stands up, flicking the button on his dark jeans and stripping them off, so he’s just in his black boxer-briefs.

He gently presses Kurt down, until he’s lying on his back on the bed, and hooks his fingers in the waistband of Kurt’s green patterned briefs, knuckles rubbing on Kurt’s hips. He can hardly catch his breath, looking up Elliott’s body—toned muscle and black ink—steady eyes, and a tenderness that makes him tremble. They both feel the shifting-slipping, here in this room, in between them again.

Elliott tugs Kurt’s underwear down his legs, baring him, finally. He can see Elliott’s hot gaze down his body, lingering on his long legs and on his hard cock, so full that Kurt feels the urge to reach down and get a hand on it himself, in self-consciousness and relief.

Kurt slowly bends his knees, baring himself even more for Elliott, and hears the harsh exhale, a muttered curse. He smiles. “There’s lube and condoms in the drawer.”

Elliott gets them and is back on the bed, kneeling between Kurt’s spread legs, holding him by the back of his thighs, hard. He leans down and licks the head of Kurt’s cock, sucking it into his mouth. Kurt cries out and his legs shake, the shock of the soft heat causing all his muscles to tense and relax, like a string pulled taut and then allowed to slacken.

He feels a wet thumb rubbing the skin below his balls as Elliott’s mouth suckles at him, in counterpoint to rhythmic press and release of that wet digit. It travels along his perineum, along his crack, and then right over his hole, pressing on his rim.

Kurt trembles and his legs move as Elliott strokes at his rim until it feels soft and easy to just press inside, Kurt can feel—the slip and then part of Elliott is inside of him, white-hot pleasure at both the physical sensations and the needy knowledge of it. Kurt’s legs raise up a little more before he even realizes—Elliott presses harder, adds more fingers, sucks more—and Kurt rocks into it, _moaning_.

Elliott pulls off his cock and rubs at Kurt’s thighs, with his clean hand. “Honey, how do you want this?”

Kurt breathes and rolls, the drive of it without thought, they’ve come this far and he needs Elliott deep. He raises onto his knees, elbows on the bed.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he hears Elliott gasp and Kurt can’t help it, he giggles into the side of his arm and turns his head to see him. Elliott is clearly staring at the spread of his cheeks.

"I guess this will work for you?" Kurt says, watching as Elliott takes off his underwear and rolls on a condom, smearing lube everywhere.

"I think—" Elliott cuts himself off and Kurt is delighted by the rapid breaths and the flush down his neck, the shake of his hands as he grabs one of Kurt’s hips, positioning himself. "You are so gorgeous, and this is—"

And he pushes in, slowly. Kurt’s head drops and he groans, high and loud, as he gets filled.

"Fucking  _amazing_ , shit,  _Kurt_ —” Elliott moans. He thrusts a few times, slow and steady, and Kurt cries out each time, the stretch of it—he can feel it in the muscles all the way down the backs of his legs, in his pelvis, everywhere.

Elliott hardly sets a rhythm—he thrusts a few times, the drag of his hard dick on Kurt’s rim and the push of him exquisite, then will grind deep for a minute before switching it back. Every time he does, he rubs and strokes along Kurt’s sides and ass and thighs, deep affectionate passes, his hands hot on Kurt’s skin.

It brings the press of tears to Kurt’s eyes—he feels open and fucked and touched—it’s overwhelming and when Elliott’s rhythm speeds up, when he fucks Kurt steadily and rub of his dick on Kurt’s prostate has him gasping, Elliott gets a hand around him.

"Oh god,  _fuck_ , please—” Kurt babbles, breathy and his knees slide out further, and Elliott jerks him hard and fucks into him and Kurt can’t take it—he comes all over the sheets, tears down his face and pelvis rocking back onto Elliott’s cock. He feels Elliott grinding into him, breathing hard and fast and whispering his name, over and over, until Kurt feels him tense and cry out into his skin.

Elliott stays close to him, pulling out, and letting Kurt rearrange on the bed before getting up to dispose of the condom and get a washcloth.

When Elliott gets back, Kurt turns to him, watching his face as he wipes Kurt’s stomach. He grabs Elliott’s hand, kisses the side of it.  ”Will you stay?”

"Sure," Elliott says, low and tender.

"There’s something I need to say first," Kurt says. Elliott nods, still flushed and sweaty and so beautiful, and Kurt shakes with what’s inside of him.

"I don’t—you just make me feel things. I don’t have to make myself feel them. With you, I just do," Kurt whispers.

Elliott runs his fingers along Kurt’s face, into his hair. He nods, looks at Kurt, and smiles so so sure. “I want us to be together.”

Kurt smiles back.


End file.
